Orbits of Forgotten Dreams

Max Du

In my old bedroom hangs a solar system of plastic planets, dangling from pieces of fishing line tied to star-shaped thumbtacks thrust into the ceiling held with wads of chewing gum.

One morning freshman year, I rise too quickly and hit my head on Neptune.

It splits into two pieces and from the faded turquoise shell comes a shower of old candies.

I run my fingers through the sugar bites, that faded raspberry pink, lemon yellow. They tumble in the hemisphere, dust sloughing, wax glaze clinking like marbles.

And for a long time I wonder why an eleven-year-old boy, bed-bouncing in floppy mohawk hair, wearing a Timex Triathlon, waterlogged, would find joy in cupping little hollow worlds and filling them with dollar-store sweets that he would never eat.